High over the hills of Errol, the Culhwch lies. She stalks from the peaks of the mounds, watching
ordinary country folk go about their day’s work, plotting against them. She knows no peace, no rest,
only the crunch of the bones of her foes, the warmth of blood drip, dripping down her maws, and the
screams of children, especially those who don’t go to sleep at bedtime.”
“Mama!” Rhian cries, tugging on the wool sheets she’s hidden under. Her mother smiles, and
kisses her daughter on top of her head. “You tell this story every night!” She complains.
Her mother makes a show of rubbing her hand over her chin, playing at thinking. “Alright,
annwyl, would you like to hear a new story?”
Her daughter nods, furious.
“Well, let’s learn a new story then.”
Behind the peaks of the Erol forest, there is the Culhwch. She stalks among her lair, stepping
over bone and rock, feasting on the flesh on the humans she devours. Her nails are like fishhooks, they
dig into the ground and rip flowers from their roots. She is a beast of destruction, a godless fool, and she
wants to bring terror to Ithel.
Ithel, the kingdom of the coast, a land of bounty and adventure, merry with pleasure and
fearless without abandon, but subject to the horrors of the Culwch.
“I had a daughter.”
Elain jumps, puts down the shirt she is wringing and simply sits with her legs in a stream.
“Where-“
“She was his,” Branwen continues, segmenting her hair into three neat pieces. Her hands are
shaking. “She was his.” She repeats, and the braiding stops. Elain leans over, places her hand inside
Branwen’s, feel her pulse over her wrist. “When they told me, I was just a child. Barely past eleven,
barely past my first cycle. And I was with child. My father…”
Elain slides as close as possible, fits her body against Branwen’s. “You needn’t if you would
rather-“
“No. I must. H-he-“ Branwen closes her eyes, shakes her head, and clears her eyes with the back
of her free hand. “I couldn’t say it aloud to myself. Not my own reflection. But if you can heal,
perhaps…”
“Tell me.”
“Mother couldn’t know. That was what he said first. ‘You shan’t tell your mother, or I will kill you
and the child.’ I cried. For days. My own father, threatening me over the parasite he placed inside me. I
tried to scratch my skin off, but I couldn’t kill myself completely, not when he made sure of it.”
Elain says nothing.
Let us begin to weave the tale of the Culhwch.
A dragon, a beast, born of the rocks that crust the hillside that look out over water wine
darkened. Night black, with eyes like the moonshine, taller than the trees and incomparable in its
hideousness. Children feed the legend, fed it until it was real, until the beast began to burn down houses
and eat the villagers that wander the paths at night. The Culhwch arrived with the rise of king Einion. It
tore through the city the night the kings daughter was killed, and burned the crops when his son was
born. The Culhwch is evil, the Culhwch is heinous, and this is its story.
Elian shuffles nervously outside of the castle’s gates. Her sandle strap seem tight around the
delicate shape of her foot, and a long strand of orange curls keeps managing to float its way down her
forehead.